Fire Bad
by HardHatShetland
Summary: After a heated incident at school, Phoebe Love is told she can't control her unhealthy impulses and must be sent to a certain Psychic Summer Camp. Her plans for summer ruined, she sets out to prove them wrong, insisting she take a trek through her charred psyche. Because anything's better than having to train under Coach Oleander, right? (Pre-game, contains OCs)
1. The Loves Vs Enilio Elementary

The sky was clear and bright on this July afternoon, shooting rays of sun on every surface in Sixteenth Street Heights, Washington, DC. What was of interest to a few people in particular was the rays of sun bouncing off a white ambulance, save for a few red stripes and of course a red cross, causing it to gleam and blind anyone looking directly at it; bad news for the eleven-year-old boy on the stretcher headed to it, covered in harsh, black burns that made him look like he belonged in Pompeii.

The boy was from the Enilio Memorial Elementary School, which had its front car park right smack-bang underneath the ambulance, with the school building itself, blocky and cobbled, behind that. From a certain office inside the building watched the school's grey-suited, grey-haired, large-nosed Principal. He closed the blinds quickly so as to avoid blinding himself and to give respect to the burned student, turned around, and sat down in his large blue desk chair, with his name, 'Principal R. Plattman' emblazoned on a little plate in front of him. Surrounding him were filing cabinets, assorted degrees behind him, and a glass cabinet full of various trophies and plaques opposite, behind his two guests.

The guests, who sat in smaller blue chairs, were very different. One was a burly man with big, round eyes, an upper lip which hung over his lower lip like an elephant, black flat hair and a green tracksuit with orange stripes, while the other was a woman of skinny-to-average build, with a round head, black ponytail and dark business attire, but most prominently, large, very plump lips. Both of them had pale green skin, a contrast to Mr. Plattman's pinkish-yellow.

"So, Mr. and Mrs. Love… I assume you know why I've called you here today." The principal went on, with a very Nixonesque drawl.

"Yes." The couple, parents of one of the school's students, replied earnestly, expecting the worst.

"Good to know… of course, I don't know if you can believe it, but I certainly can't. Your daughter, Phoebe, has set fire to one of the other students for the third time this year! Not to mention the dozens of times she has set fire to school property!" he went off again, suddenly getting louder and faster towards the end.

"Principal Plattman, with all due respect, we've been over this before…" Mrs. Love said speedily in the hopes of defusing the Principal's apparent anger, but it was no use.

"I know we've been over this before, but we shouldn't be going over this again! Your daughter needs to learn how to control her Pyrokinesis! The simple fact of the matter is that we can't have any student, straight B-pluses or no, posing a serious risk of injury or death to the rest of the school! It's common sense!"

"Yes, I agree one-hundred percent, but you must understand that that she doesn't have much control over-"

"Lisa… Lisa! Stop! Please, let me handle this." Mr. Love interrupted his wife, slowly and carefully, stroking her on the shoulder to calm her down.

Mr. Love pulled his chair forward, sat up and leaned in for subtle intimidation, and cleared his throat loudly. "Can we hear what exactly happened, please?"

The Principal, finding himself staring down the much larger man, shrunk into his chair meekly before sweeping a folder over to him and opening it up, reading out the contents.

"Well, most accounts given by those who witnessed what happened, staff and students alike, say that there was some kind of scuffle in the cafeteria between your daughter and the victim of her Pyrokinesis attack, Gerald McLamough. We don't know what caused the scuffle, but most accounts suggest that Gerald pushed Phoebe over onto the floor, spilling her drink over her, and then about ten seconds later, Gerald just… spontaneously combusted."

"I don't see why Phoebe is getting blamed for this. She was the victim here."

Lisa Love suddenly spoke up. "Basil, please don't say-"

"Nope, I'm gonna say it. This McLamough kid got what he deserved."

Lisa proceeded to slump back in her chair and facepalm with a loud smack, as the Principal lowered his folder and, in a move of courage, looked Basil Love straight in the eye.

"That's what you said last time, and the time before. I must stress, I am not, by any means, saying that Phoebe is to blame for starting whatever incident occurred, but I will say that it was a disproportionate punishment! I don't know how discipline worked at your elementary school when you were a kid, but this is a little extreme, don't you think? Besides, if we just let all the students play vigilante whenever one of them wronged another, the school would be a smoking ruin by the end of the week!"

"You're missing the point here, 'Principal'" Basil replied, putting emphasis on 'principal', trying to be snarky. "Ideally, the kids shouldn't be picking on each other in the first place. How did discipline work at my elementary school, you ask? Our principal had a little dark closet we called the 'Chamber of Broken Dreams'. Whenever a kid screwed up real bad in the rules department, whether it be back-chatting to the teacher or stealing another kid's lunch money out of spite, they'd get locked in the chamber, sometimes for hours. The chamber was filled with old photographs of beaten children from _his_ days at school, with written captions explaining why dumb kids shouldn't be naughty in simple words that dumb kids could understand. There was even one story posted on the wall about a kid who, having been a complete troublemaker, went on to a miserable life as a-"

"Okay, Basil, I think you've said enough." Lisa piped up, having built up a degree of serious composure since the start of the meeting, regaining her upright posture. As requested, Basil, after a few seconds of inactivity, stopped talking with an 'I surrender' gesture and slumped back in his seat.

"Okay, Principal Plattman…" She said, this time with confidence, the Principal having been thoroughly intimidated by her husband's little story and his physically large presence. "…What did Phoebe say about the incident? How did it start?"

"Well, she was a little reluctant to talk about it… but she did eventually say that Gerald, one of her classmates in Music, had previously vandalized the drum kit she was using by cutting out holes in the drums, sabotaging a practice session yesterday, and today he tried to steal her sandwiches, resulting in a struggle in which she was pushed over and… well, you know the rest."

"Hmm, I should've known it'd have something to do with music. Phoebe sure loves to drum away. Where is she now?"

"She's currently in detention, and we've already told her that she's been given a three-day exclusion for this incident. We've already made arrangements with the police to ensure that any charges filed against her are dropped, as we are in agreement that she is too young to properly comprehend the impact of her lack of control. But there's a problem here… eventually, that excuse is going to deteriorate as she gets older, and if she continues like this, then… well, it won't be good for her. I have full confidence that you have been helping her control her powers…"

"Oh trust us, we have. You should have seen her at Kindergarten, or rather the lack of it since she was turned down by all of them!" Basil rudely interrupted.

"…Thank you, Mr. Love. As I was saying, I have full confidence in that, but, and I don't mean to offend you by saying this, I am convinced it is not enough. She needs more help."

"…Okay, so when are you going to start helping her? So far, all you've done is complain." Lisa said very matter-of-factly, with a slight tinge of power in her voice.

"Well, unfortunately, we don't get many Psychic children here, so we are under-equipped to deal with these… cases. But, luckily for you, and for Phoebe, I know something that can help."

With this declaration of meaningfulness, Phoebe's parents began to pay more attention as the Principal slid open the desk drawer to his right and rummaged through it, eventually pulling out a colourful pamphlet, covered with swirling green-and-purple patterns, and with a bold emblem of a brain on the front. As soon as he grasped the item, he handed it to his guests without delay, and they began to study. Lisa was the first to comment.

"Hmm… Whispering Rock Psychic Summer Camp?"

"I received that just last week in the school's mailbox. I have no idea who sent it, but I've triple-checked; the place exists, and other children across the country and a few in other countries have been hand-picked to go to this place. I think this was intended for a specific student, possibly your daughter, but I can't know for sure."

"No kidding. Look at this, Basil. 'Soaring Across the Astral Plane?' 'Fighting Enemies of Free Thought?' Sounds like serious business to me. And that emblem on the front looks familiar…"

"I know that emblem, that's the emblem of the Psychonauts!" Basil said with enthusiasm. "I used to read _True Psychic Tales_ all the time as a kid, back when I was egging Dorkster Denny Duncan's house with TK, and the Psychonauts were my idols. I knew I'd never get to join them, but damn…"

"Who are the Psychonauts, anyway?" the Principal asked. "I'm afraid I've never been too 'into' Psychics, and I've certainly never read _True Psychic Tales_, although I've heard some of the students talking about it. Half the tales they mention sound far too bizarre to be true."

"The Psychonauts, or the International Psychic Security Initiative, to cite their proper name, are an all-Psychic offshoot of Interpol formed in 1949 by Colbert Rare, dedicated to combating terrorism and big-time crime across the globe, to put it simply."

"Well, you've… certainly done your research, Mr. Love."

"Thanks."

"So, wait a minute, are you suggesting we make our daughter join some kind of secret Psychic agency?" Lisa spoke up. It was obvious that she wasn't as enthusiastic as her husband.

"Of course not. Phoebe has a right to choose whatever path she wants to in later life, whether that be joining the… Psycho-whatsits or… forming a band."

"Wait a minute…" she continued, now looking inside the pamphlet. "Hmph! I don't treat her powers like a curse! Hell, I've dabbled in firestarting, myself, back when I was with the Rainbow Squirts. And what's this? I'm supposed to be afraid of her now? And Basil's supposed to be ashamed?"

"How comes the mother is afraid but the father is only ashamed? I don't get it." Basil interjected.

"Oh great, look at this. Apparently her powers make her either a Loner, an Outcast, or a Circus Freak. That's rich! Aside from general troublemakers like Gerald, she seems fine to me, especially with that redheaded kid she always hangs out with at band practice. Who wrote this? 'Cause I'd like to see how big the chip on his or her shoulder is. Looks like they assumed all Psychics are neglected by their families and hated by everyone else. Inferiority complex, much?"

"I've no idea, Mrs. Love, but I suggest you ignore that little opening speech and look at the activities section. I'm sure you'll agree, it'll be perfect for her." The Principal said, hoping that it would appease the wrath of the big man and his wife, who had somehow gotten more and more confident as the meeting went on.

"Hmm… well, it certainly seems very interesting." Lisa mused. "Swimming, nature walks, hay-burning, telekinetic rock-throwing, bear wrestl- bear wrestling?! Ugh. Germs. What else… blast-based anger management classes, cobweb dusting, cobweb _burning_, that sounds good, mental world variations of all of these and more… hmm, lots of hay to burn, it seems. Phoebe could do with some hay to burn."

"Perhaps you should move to a farm." said the Principal, his attempt at amusing his guests met with blatantly forced laughter. "Seriously though, it looks good, don't you think?"

"Look at this!" went Basil, pointing at a list of staff members on the back of the pamphlet. "Agent Sasha Nein… he knows control. I'll say that much. In fact, I remember watching him on a documentary about the Mental World, and his mind is like a cube in which inconvenient thoughts and memories will only appear if he wills them to, and nothing is out of place. If he can't get Phoebe's firestarting habits under control, then I dunno what will, short of a hypnotist."

"Well… I suppose it might work if nothing very horribly bad happens at such a camp, like camp bullies, faulty rollerblades, having Mexican Stand-Offs over the profits of the cookies you just sold for highly inflated prices, or half the other stuff that was a regular fixture in my Troop's camps." said Lisa, sounding a tad evil towards the end.

"…Eh?" The Principal replied with strong confusion.

"Oh, never mind. It was a strange organization. Anyway, do we have much of a choice here?"

"Well, technically, you do. You see, summer vacation's fast approaching, and I know that just about all the staff here can't endure another year of weekly, sometimes daily, fire drills and piles of smouldering ash being an everyday occurrence in the classroom. So, unless you come across a more suitable solution, then you can either send her to this camp, which, as far as I'm aware, is the only Summer Camp in America dedicated to training Psychics…"

"And what if we refuse?"

"Then I'm afraid we'll have no choice but to expel your daughter."

"What?!" exclaimed both of Phoebe's parents, simultaneously, the first time they expressed genuine shock during the meeting.

"…And that'd be a real shame, since she's proven to be very promising academically. We have very few smart people in this world as it is without all the smart ones with unstable psychic powers getting expelled from their schools… I mean, if I had a dollar for every time I heard of some shameful case…"

"Well, some choice this is. How expensive is this place, anyway? It doesn't say on the pamphlet, and my husband still has a gym to keep running." Lisa explained.

"I don't want to have to sell the pommel horse again. Finding a buyer for that was comparable to shoving a dirty stick in a 50 calibre bullet wound."

"I looked at their website, and it says it's only 60 dollars… if your child's been hand-picked, that is. The thing is, I don't know if the pamphlet was intended specifically for your daughter or was just an open event. After all, she and Quentin Hedgemouse are the only two Psychics in the whole school, and Quentin hasn't really gotten into anything troublesome, save denting Ms. Ninden's car with his glowing levitation ball."

"60 measly dollars? I'm sold." Basil exclaimed immediately.

"Well, considering how we've never heard of this place before, and trust us, we've searched for places to help her control Pyrokinesis, but Phoebe seems somewhat… exceptional with her degree of instability… I'm going to assume it was meant for her. Besides, if it turns out it wasn't, what's going to stop us from sending her there for only 60 bucks anyway? They'll probably be embarrassed how they didn't specify and just let her in regardless. It's a no-brainer." Lisa added.

"Plus, I, for one, wouldn't mind having a Psychonaut for a daughter… if she decides to be one, of course. Besides the general desirability of such a job, have you heard how much they get paid? Not even Lisa's boss at the pharmaceutical company, whatever it's called, gets paid that much."

"Really?" Lisa responded to her enthusiastic husband, her own enthusiasm growing by the second.

"Yep."

"How much?"

"Don't know for sure, but I do know it's more than 200K each year."

"Well, that _is_ a lot of money… but what will Phoebe think about all this? I mean, didn't she want to go to a Band Camp this summer?"

"Don't worry about it, Lisa, we'll convince her to go along with it once we get home."

"I guess we haven't got much of a choice, have we?"

"I guess you're right."


	2. Phoebe Vs Her Family

"A _Psychic_ Summer Camp?!" Exclaimed Phoebe, sitting across from her parents at the glass dining table of their rather swanky dining room-slash-kitchen in their typical DC suburban dwelling.

She was wearing a plain maroon t-shirt along with her baggy plaid trousers, and of course her trademark headphones. In the kitchen sat her 16-year-old brother Francis Love on a stool, skinny with a cap nearly pulled over his eyes, wearing a white t-shirt and brown trousers held up with suspenders, and of course the characteristic pale green skin of the Love family. He was reading a book, oblivious to the talk session going on nearby.

Phoebe continued with her expected defiance of her folks' proposal. "But I wanted to go to Band Camp this summer! I've been looking forward to it for months!"

"Yes, we know, Phoebe, but you must understand that we can't have you going around setting fire to people! We all have to learn to control our undesirable urges eventually, and I know that it's best you to do it when you're young and impressionable, otherwise it may never happen."

"But Mom…" Phoebe replied in desperation "…I'm not crazy! I don't burn people just for the hell of it! That Gerald dude was a dork! If he hadn't picked on me in the first place, then he wouldn't have gotten himself burned, would he?"

"She's got a point there…" Basil murmured under his breath, to which Lisa counter-murmured "Shut up, Basil!"

Lisa continued her defence of their proposal. "Look, Phoebe, I understand you're quite peed off that your plans have been ruined, but in all honesty, we haven't really got much of a choice here."

"Oh really? What happens if I say no, then?"

"Then the principal says he'll have you expelled."

"Why, that Platypus-nosed Cockroach! I swear, next time I see him, I'm gonna fry his butt…"

"You see? To him, you resemble that remark!" Basil suddenly interjected with great force before Lisa could respond softly. "Like it or not, the world doesn't work as you think it does! Admittedly, I think the crime rate would go down overnight if we just started setting fire to criminals…"

"Basil!" Lisa objected to her husband's words, but he nonetheless went on.

"…But that's not how things work. We live in a civilized society, and as far as the spooks in office are concerned, burning people has no place in a civilized society. If you burn people, you get thrown in a mental asylum next to that crazy security guard who burnt down that Hernando's outlet in LA a few years back; he wasn't even psychic and he still caused a lot of needless havoc!"

"Dad! I'm nothing like that guy! I can learn!"

"What your father is trying to say…" Lisa said slowly and considerately "…is that, unless you learn to control your... habits, then you will get ostracized. Discriminated against. People who meet you in the street will either cower in fear or they'll run after and ask constant questions, like 'Why do you set fire to people?', 'Have you killed anyone?', 'Can you please cook my dinner because I'm too stupid to operate the oven?', 'Do you know the Human Torch?', 'What is the purpose of the headphones?', 'Who is The Milkman?'"

"Precisely! …Milkman? Never mind! Your mother is right!"

"I don't see why I should go to some boring camp for secret agent wannabes to learn how to control it, though!"

"Secret agent wannabes?! Phoebe, these are the Psychonauts we're talking about! They've saved all our asses more times than any of us can comprehend, so you better show them some serious respect, young lady!" Basil responded in genuine disgust, his idols having been defiled by a tiny little girl, daughter or no, who knew nothing about them. To drive his point in her face even further, he leaned forward in his seat aggressively, stabbing his finger at her.

For an agonizing ten seconds, nothing was said. Lisa looked somewhat shocked at her husband's sudden aggressive behaviour, and Phoebe flinched in her seat, her eyes as big as Frisbees. For a few seconds, she looked to be on the verge of sobbing, if not outright crying, but she managed to regain her mind and responded apologetically:

"Alright, alright… I get it, the Psychonauts are awesome… but seriously, this secret agent stuff is way out of my league… I don't even wanna be a Psychonaut anyway…"

"Sweetie, you don't have to join them…" Lisa said, easing up to soften the figurative blow dealt to her daughter by her reckless husband, leaning forward in a more comforting manner. "...But we think this place will be perfect for you. It doesn't seem very boring to me, and they've got all sorts of stress-reliever activities, like hay-burning, cobweb-burning, um... bear-wrestling, I guess…"

"Mom, you know what I do when I need to relieve stress. I hit drums really hard with a stick."

"Well, I'm sure they'll have musical facilities here as well. Even better, it says you'll also get the opportunity to travel into your mind, and the minds of others!"

Phoebe suddenly perked up when she heard this new nugget of information. "…You mean, the Mental World? That sounds awesome!"

As they were busy debating the pros and cons of the camp, Francis had gotten up off his seat to retrieve a can of Cola from the refrigerator and had walked over to the rest of the family, attracting their attention with the loud crack of a can opening.

"Say, you guys talking about that Whispering Rock place?"

"Yeah." replied Basil, sensing trouble on the horizon.

"Y'know, I once heard that, this one time, one of the counsellors, Coach Orleans or something like that, once held one of the campers upside-down with telekinesis until he turned blue… unnatural blue, that is, but just before the kid had drank a six-pack of soda, so when he shook him up, he exploded."

This random piece of trivia was followed by Phoebe suddenly shrinking into her chair, shivering a little with great fear, as her parents looked at their insensitive son with great scepticism.

"What kind of soda was this kid drinking?!" Basil questioned, which may or may not have been rhetorical. This was duly followed up with Lisa questioning: "Francis, where do you read this stuff?"

"I read about it on the internet."

"You shouldn't believe everything you read on the internet. I'm not even going to begin listing all the strange, strange relationships I've seen people dream up there."

"I didn't believe it; it sounds like absolute crap if taken literally. I think it's just symbolic of how strict a teacher this Coach Orleans guy is."

"Shut up, Francis! You're scaring me!" Phoebe chimed in, still shivering.

"Alright, alright, geez… just warning you, is all."

"Francis, what part of 'shut up' don't you understand?!"

"But-"

"No! From now on, no talking!"

"Do as she says, Francis…" Basil mumbled under his breath, casting a warning to Francis with his eyes.

Francis looked like he was about to say something, but upon thinking about the havoc that could be unleashed if Phoebe got too emotional, he refrained from doing so again, instead grabbing his book and power-walking into another room.

"Damn stupid brother…"

"Relax, Phoebe. People don't blow up from getting shaken after having drunk a lot of soda. I know, because I once did the same thing in high school. Dorkster Denny Duncan didn't even vomit, let alone blow up." replied Basil. Both Lisa and Phoebe looked somewhat uninterested, having heard his tales of his feud with Duncan many times.

"Yes, you've told us before…" Lisa replied, obviously wanting to get things moving again. "…Then Duncan punched you in the face and you spent the next week in hospital."

"That's not what I'm worried about…" Phoebe said. "What I'm worried about is this Coach Orleans dude. I mean, this is, like, a boot camp for Psychics, kinda like…"

"No…" replied Basil, sensing further resistance to the greatest job in the world.

"Yep, I'm gonna say it…"

"Don't say it…"

"Kinda like Military Camp?"

"No! No, no, no, no, no! It's nothing like… 'Military Camp'…" he said, shivering very subtly with those last two words.

"Yeah, whatever you say, Dad. 'Soaring Across The Astral Plane' sounds cool and all, but I tell you one thing, there is _no_ way I am getting bossed and tossed and shaken and generally abused by some drill sergeant guy! I mean, have you seen _Full Metal Jacket_!? No way, dude, no way! I'd sooner take my chances going cold turkey with burning stuff."

"Phoebe, don't be so stubborn! That's exactly what Grandma Gerda tried when she faced the same problems as you, and guess what happened to her? She burned _herself_ up! To a crisp!" Lisa responded, with greater force than usual.

"I know, you've told me, like, a million times, and yeah, you're right, but… not trying to be insensitive or anything, but she was old and crazy. She couldn't think properly, could she?"

"Well… yes, that's exactly why she tried going cold turkey in the first place, and that's exactly what you're doing right now."

"Mom! I'm not old, I'm only eleven!"

"That's not what I- ugh, look, I understand you're reluctant right now, your plans have been ruined, you're effectively being forced by your Platypus-nosed Cockroach of a principal to go to a camp hosting a man who is rumoured to blow kids up… but, please, just… think about it, at least?"

Phoebe promptly slumped down in her seat, seemingly resigning herself to her fate. "Umm… yeah, okay…"

"Promise?" Basil said.

"Alright…"

"Double Triple Quadruple Class Three Mark Five Promise Part Seven: The Revenge Of The Return Of The Night Of The Bride Of The Living Evil Promise?"

"Mmkay…"

"Good to hear. Now you go outside and get some fresh air in that overheating noggin." he said, scruffing up Phoebe's hair… or he would, if it hadn't been tied back.

Phoebe proceeded to push her chair back, squeaking against the wooden floor, got out of said chair and sort of shambled her way out of the room, her face angled towards the floor, but not extremely so. The parents waited around until they heard a soft slam coming from the front door, indicating her departure from the house.

"Damn Francis!" Basil nearly-yelled. "If it weren't for him and his crazy internet rumours, she'd have been sold! Just look at how she perked up when we mentioned the Mental World!"

"Forget about it, not much we can do about it now. Well, except hiding his book in a really obscure place like we did last time."

"Now that's a great idea, why didn't I think of that before we talked to Phoebe? Let's do it!"


	3. Phoebe Vs Quentin

About ten minutes away from the shady street in which the Love family had set up residence was a park, and a fairly big one at that. Deep in the heart of said park, where the houses of the surrounding suburbs could fit in one's hand if one made an 'o' shape with their thumb and index finger, was a fenced-off playground. In this playground, there was a see-saw, two sets of swings (one for small children and one for _really_ small children) and a dome-shaped Jungle Gym, all of which cast geometric shadows all over the place as the sun was beginning to set in the distance.

There were only two children, and indeed, two human beings in the playground at this point in time. One of them was Phoebe Love herself, who sat on one of the bigger swings with a lollipop in her mouth, playing with a bright blue yo-yo and generally looking melancholy. The other, sitting on the Jungle Gym opposite Phoebe, was a bright-skinned boy with a relatively wide head, upon which sat short red (as in, orange) hair. He was wearing baggy trousers/pants, trainers/sneakers, a military green t-shirt with 'INSERT IRONIC QUIP HERE' written on it in white, and, bizarrely for July, a red scarf. He was busy eating crinkled crisps/potato chips and chatting away incessantly.

"…And so I said to the dude at the counter 'where's the ham?' So he was all confused, like 'huh?' and then I said 'I ordered a _ham_burger, isn't there supposed to be ham on it?' So this guy, he must have been eighteen or something, said in that Deep South accent 'hamburgers don't have ham on them, they're just plain burgers', so of course I get all confused too, and I say 'then why call it a hamburger? Why not just a burger? I mean, seriously dude, you've no idea how frustrating it was when I couldn't find a plain burger option in the menu and had to order a hamburger instead.' Now, I got him stumped here, right, the poor dude obviously doesn't know, so he calls over to one of his bros back in the kitchen, and he says 'this kid wants to know why they call hamburgers that if there's no ham!' Then the other dude says something that I didn't hear, and the first dude says to me 'they're named after Hamburg, Germany'. So that's when I decide to go all socio-political on him, and I say 'Fair enough, dude. But let's be straight – the average fatso customer here in redneck country, USA, isn't going to know Germany exists, let alone their favourite food is named after a German city, so, the next time you see the manager, just suggest he change it to 'burger' and the profits'll go up overnight!' And here's the kicker… you know what he says next? I bet you'll never believe this, ever, but he actually agrees with me! I must have inherited the debating gene from my Dad. To be fair, though, I would've liked a literal hamburger. I mean, it sounds pretty weird having two types of meat in the same burger, but I imagine that once you get over that, it tastes radical!"

"Uh-huh… mm-hmm… yeah…" Phoebe responded throughout, obviously not paying the least bit of attention.

"Phoebe, what's up with you today? You haven't said anything since… six minutes ago. Don't tell me you're actually traumatized by that little 'incident' earlier today. You were cool with it the first two times."

"Huh? Oh no, it's not that, I dealt with that, like, a century ago." She finally responded, removing the purple lollipop from her mouth. "Nah, I'm just a little… annoyed."

"Why's that? Your folks grounded you for it? Well, that's a stupid question, since you're out here and all… unless you snuck out!"

"Nah, that's not it."

"Huh… um… wait, did your dog pee on your drums again?"

"Nope. If that happened, that dome thing you're sitting on would be melting."

"Shoulda guessed. Wait, I know, is it-"

"No, it's not that either."

"What the- I didn't say anything that time! …Did you read my mind again?"

"Nah, I just guessed you weren't gonna say what I'm annoyed about."

"Well, what _are_ you annoyed about?"

"Nothing that you'd be interested in."

"C'mon, you can tell me! Kid to Kid, Psychic to Psychic, Artiste to Artiste, y'know?"

"Forget about it, Quentin."

"Your losh." he concluded, munching on another crisp in the process.

As Quentin continued to empty his bag of fried potato-based snacks, he spied a bright green-and-purple piece of paper sticking out of his friend's pocket, with a bold brain emblem barely visible.

"Say, what's that you got in your pocket?"

"What? Oh, nothing."

"That doesn't look like a 'nothing' to me. Looks more like some kinda funky pamphlet. Let me see it."

"Hold on, let me check my pocket for this 'funky pamphlet' you're talking about." Phoebe proceeded to look inside the _other_ pocket and reported back "Nope, nothing in there."

"The other pocket, Phoebe."

In either a desperate attempt to get him to stop inquiring about it or a subtle insult in response to his nosiness, Phoebe quickly grabbed the pamphlet, put it in the other pocket, then checked the pocket where the pamphlet used to be and once again reported "Nothing here, either."

"Hey, I'm not stupid! I saw you move it! C'mon, just let me see the damn thing! What could possibly go wrong?"

Phoebe sighed. "Alright, fine, but please don't ask too many questions about it."

Finally caving in, Phoebe promptly took the pamphlet back out of her pocket and handed it to Quentin, who immediately began to read through it at a much speedier pace than either she or her parents had done previously.

"A Psychic Summer Camp?"

"Yeah."

"Damn, I didn't even know such places existed! Where'd you get this?"

"I stole it off my parents after they told me about their little meeting with Principal Platypus."

"Oh geez. What'd _he_ say?"

"Nothing much; just that I have to go to this camp over the summer, or else he'll get me chucked outta the school."

"Hmph… Classic Platypus." Quentin paused to take a closer look at the emblem on the front. "Hey, wait a second, that's the Psychonauts emblem!"

"Yep."

"So, wait… are you telling me they're telling you to go to a Psychonaut training camp?"

"Well, I didn't actually_ tell_ you anything, but yes."

"Woah, this is awesome, my bro! Like, totally awesome! _Totally _totally awesome, even!"

"You think so?"

"Do I? Being a Psychonaut is probably one of the dopest job descriptions there are! Not as cool as being in a band, I'll admit, but still pretty cool."

"Exactly! I wanted to go to Band Camp this summer, but now I can't, and all because of that Gerald dork!"

"Hey, relax, Phoebe, it's not much of a big loss. I told you before, just being around other musicians doesn't do anything to hone your skills, and most of the people who go to those places are just girly pop-listening poseurs anyway. But this is different… if there's one thing I dig besides mixing records, it's levitating! And this activities section is plastered with levitation! Well, levitation opportunities." Upon looking at the staff section at the back, his eyes seemingly grew three times in size as he said "WOAH! Sasha Nein and Milla Vodello, the Mental Minx?! Phoebe, how could you _not_ be excited about this place?"

"Yeah, I know it looks pretty fun, but it's one of other the teachers there that I'm worked up about. Some dude called Coach Orleans."

"Yeah, I see him. 'Morkeyoh Oleender'. I think I recognise him from _True Psychic Tales_ #413. Looks like he runs this joint."

"Yeah, and my damn stupid brother told me that he once shook up this kid after he drank a tonne of soda and then he blew up!"

"Woah. That doesn't sound chill."

"Exactly, and I'm supposed to spend a week with this dude. I bet you a million dollars I won't come out alive, or with my mind in one piece."

Quentin lowered the pamphlet as he had a brainwave. A subtle brainwave that was 'quiet' enough to not be detected by Phoebe, but a powerful one nonetheless.

"…Nah, he can't be _that_ bad. Strict, sure, but not deadly strict. I mean, my Dad once went to military camp, and he knows all about these drill sergeant types. Hell, he practically works for one! I can deal with them."

"Yeah, so did _my_ Dad, and he tells me it was… well, he couldn't describe it in words, but he did say it was really, really bad."

"Didn't you also tell me that his childhood hero was Tony the Tiger?"

"Good point. But even if you can deal with this Coach Orleans dude…"

"Oleender."

"Whatever. Even if you can deal with him, you're not me, are you? I'm me. I mean, if you were me, that'd be extremely confusing and more than a little creepy."

"I know I'm not you. Or am I?" Quentin proceeded to tug at his neck and mimed pulling off a mask, complete with appropriate sound effect, and then said in a squeaky voice "Well, hello there! I'mma powerful-as-hell Pyrokinetic and i'm scared of a shorty authority figure! Please, save me, Quentin!" This earned him a forced laugh, followed with:

"Yeah, very funny, Quentin. I've _never_ seen you do that before. You were saying?"

"So yeah, I may not be you, but I can be _with_ you. My inherited experience with strict military types can keep you company, and your… well, your mere presence can keep me company."

"Wait, now _you_ want to go to this camp too? Aaaaargh, why won't this nightmare end?!" she lamented with sarcasm.

"Seriously dude, it'd be totally dope! Psychic powers, music, running around our own heads, jumping and bouncing and doing mega somersaults through space…"

"Forget about it, Quentin. You've done nothing 'wrong', 'cept for that one time you dented Ms. Ninden's car, and that was an accident! Plus, your Mom doesn't think you're gonna burn yourself up like an idiot! If I have to go to this place, which I won't, if I have my way, then I'd rather you weren't stuck there with me and the rest of the secret agent wannabes."

"Wait, your mom thinks you'll burn _yourself _up?"

"It's a bunch of baloney, anyway. My Mom always tells me about Grandma and how she had the same unhealthy compulsions that I do, and how she eventually ended up losing control completely and burned herself alive. She was too young to remember it, but _Herr _Grandpa hammered it into her head almost every day, making it sound like some kinda family curse that claimed disobedient little girls who didn't eat their sauerkraut."

"Freaky. Kinda reminds me of The Milkman."

"Who, Johnny?"

"No, not _our_ milkman, _The _Milkman! Y'know, the Rainbow Squirts' urban legend about a crazed milkman who _really _started the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, and who's burned spirit will show up to consume kids who play with matches?"

"…Ah yeah, my Mom told me about that, too. She used to be a Rainbow Squirt. I hear she had lots Mexican Stand-Offs over cookies… does your little sister do that?"

"Amanda? Yeah, I heard that she once-"

Suddenly, he was interrupted by the muffled sound of the first few lines of the Bee Gees' _'Stayin' Alive'_ coming direct from his pocket, or rather, the cell phone within_. _Phoebe giggled a little upon hearing his ring-tone as Quentin pulled out his silver cell phone, flipping it open and holding it to his ear, stopping the lyrics mid-sentence. Quentin simply delivered a silencing stare to her (not that it stopped her from giggling under her breath) as he answered the call.

"Hello? Yeah, I'm in the playground… what? Potato waffles?! Radical! I'll be there right away! Make sure Imogen doesn't steal any of mine! …Yeah, I'll make sure I don't do that, either. Tell Mom I love her again! Bye!"

"Heeheeheehehahaha!"

"What?!"

"I didn't know you were into disco, Quentin!"

"Hey, this isn't the late seventies! I'm allowed to like disco! Besides, my taste in music is very, very diverse, and I'm proud of that."

"Diverse, hmm? What, even-"

"NO! Just… no. Not _that_ diverse."

Quentin proceeded to scrunch up the now-empty bag of crisps/chips and got up to leave. However, as he was in the process of turning around, he swivelled back and held up the pamphlet he was still holding.

"Hey, Phoebe, can I borrow this?"

"Knock yourself out. I wouldn't get your hopes up, though. I am _not_ going to any Psychic boot camps with dudes like Orleans…"

"Oleender!"

"Whatever! Somehow, before the summer vacation, I'm gonna get in my mind, and I'm gonna kick my unhealthy impulses' butts!"

"…Yeah. Good luck with that. Anyway, see you at band practice tonight."

"Later, Disco Q."

As Quentin walked away from the playground, bound for the Hedgemouse residence, Phoebe got up from the swing and surveyed the see-saw nearby.

_'Man, I hate see-saws; and scales.'_ She thought to herself. _'Balancing everything is a bitch.'_


	4. Phoebe Vs The Hedgemice

That night, the Hedgemouse residence, just around the corner from the Love house, had all of its noise carefully segregated, from the environmental documentaries in the lounge to the sound of punk rock from an upstairs bedroom, but it was all drowned out by the largest sounds of them all: Phoebe Love, tonight's guest, banging away on her drums in the garage.

The dull, dusty garage itself was empty save for a few cardboard boxes, a grimy old sink, and of course the band practitioners Phoebe and Quentin in the middle. Phoebe, sitting on a green plastic chair, was trying a very fast-paced rhythm, her favourite kind, on the drum kit she had hauled all the way there; it was mostly featureless, save for the word 'PHOEBE' taped on the front, in fiery red letters. Quentin, standing on an upside-down box in front of his turntables, simply looked on as the rhythm proceeded as Phoebe had intended.

Deep, neutral, high, deep, neutral, high, deep, deep, neutral, high, deep, neutral, neutral… whoops. A mistake had been made. Quentin braced himself in preparation for the outburst of self-encouragement he would have to deliver.

"AAAAAGGHH! I messed up again! Why do I suck so bad?!" Phoebe wailed in frustration.

Quentin was quick to deliver his burst of encouragement. "Hey, come on now... that was awesome! You're great at this and you know it!"

"But I'm not supposed to mess up so badly! Messing up like that could spell our doom in an actual concert, and it'd all be my fault!"

"No it wouldn't! Well... okay, it might, but that's why this is band _practice,_ right? You just smooth out any mistakes like, um... like chocolate spread on a sandwich!"

"Ew... what kind of person puts chocolate spread in a sandwich? I mean, on toast, sure, but in a _sandwich_?!"

"I don't know, it's just a metaphor!"

"You do, don't you? You put chocolate spread on your sandwiches, don't you?"

"Well... yeah, once or twice."

"Yuck! Dude, what were you thinking?! Are you nuts or something?!"

"Hey, I was only five at the time! You can get away with accidentally putting cheese and chocolate spread in the same sandwich when you're five."

"Oh my God-of-choice, that makes it so much worse! My tongue hurts just thinking about it!"

"Says the lady who thinks char-grilling Reindeer meat is a good idea."

"Okay, you know what, I don't care any more, let's just change pace, shall we?" Phoebe suggested, the metaphor having clearly taken her mind off her mistake. Usually if you take her mind off such mistakes, a rather _heated_ incident can be avoided. Quentin happened to be rather bad at making up metaphors, which was no doubt a major contributing factor to their good friendship. Too bad Quentin would sometimes end up aggravating her in some other way.

"What, you don't want to talk about that _delicious_ grilled rudolph?"

"For your information, Reindeer is basically Scandinavia's equivalent of Cattle. You went up there and said stuff like that, you'd be laughed out the room! Now please change the subject or I'll char-grill _you._" Phoebe said with gritted teeth.

"You can't do that, you know you've got a block."

"Quentin..."

"Alright, alright, I get it! Take a chill pill and all that shtick. So yeah, I think we could do with some variety tonight, actually. Anything on your mind?"

"Well, the other day I looked at this awesome video on the Internet, and there were these ex-military dudes drumming real fast. You know, like a cadence or a drumrun? Is that what it's called?"

"You tell me, you're the drummer."

"Well, I just figured that, given my recent dilemma, what with that Coach Orleans dude..."

"Oleender!"

"Whatever! Anyway, I figured _this_ kinda soundtrack would be a suitable psyche-up. Watch this..."

Phoebe proceeded to raise her scratched drumsticks once again, wiping her forehead with one of them briefly and began to inaudibly tap on one of the drums to prepare herself. The length of time she did this for was usually an indication of how experienced she was with the music she was about to produce.

She did this for about seven seconds, indicating that she had at least studied it. Once those seven seconds were up, she raised both of her arms, narrowed her eyes in concentration and proceeded to strike her drums in such a manner so as to emulate a military-style drumrun, starting off with isolated clusters of strikes before increasingly connecting them together with fast 'strings' of them.

This went on for about twenty-seven seconds before the pace slowed down considerably, the space where other instruments, most likely those of a brass nature, would come into prominence. This lasted for nearly thirty seconds before the pace sped up again, much faster than before and with deeper 'bong' strikes inserted. Quentin listened with full focus for the next minute-and-a-half as the slow-fast pattern repeated itself, clearly quite impressed with her ability to perform a previously un-performed style of music, if his wide eyes and smile were any indication.

Then Phoebe abruptly stopped drumming, slumping in her seat and opening her eyelids once again. Rubbing her forehead, she turned back to Quentin and queried him on her feat. "So, how was that?"

"How was it? How _wasn't_ it? I know that doesn't make any sense, but that was just dope! Solid! You drummed that drum to the bone! See, I told you you were great!"

"I know, right? I'm, like, the best drummer this side of the Atlantic ocean. BUT! There is something that bothers me."

"Like what? What could possibly bother you about that?"

"Those massive gaps that I put in, like they did in the video, I think that's where there's supposed to be background music, but there wasn't any. I don't think that'd go down well with any audience, unless it was a military parade."

"Say no more, I know exactly what you're thinking. Literally."

"Oh sure, just read my mind like it ain't no thing, never mind how you always tell me not to read yours..."

Quentin ignored Phoebe's accusations of hypocrisy as he proceeded to rummage through the box of records plonked on the ground next to him. He pulled out one record, placed it on his turntables and began to scratch...

" _Pineapple- Pineapple- lives- lives- lives in a Pineapple under the- Pineapple- "_

"Nah, that's no good..." he said, removing that record and retrieving another one, repeating the previous ritual.

" _Bi-Bill! Bill! Bi-Bill! Bill! Bi-Bill- the Sci-Sci-Sci-Science Guy- "_

"Aww man, I wish this was fast-paced enough, this is awesome..."

Once again, he proceeded to discard the record and swapped it out with another one, not really focusing on which records he was picking up. It's what he usually did. He'd find a suitable record eventually, he'd always think. As luck would have it, this time he did. He inserted the record onto his turntables, and and a certain techno-hip-hop record began playing.

"Alright, now we're talkin'! Phoebe, start with that rad drumrun thirty-five seconds in!"

"When's that? Your talking over it derailed my concentration!"

"Aw, scratch that, just start when I say! And don't say 'you do the scratching', either!"

Twenty-five seconds in, and Phoebe jumped back into straightened-back position. "...Closing in..."

Thirty seconds, and she began tapping the drums silently. "One, two, three, go!"

The moment Quentin said 'go', Phoebe immediately restarted her previous drumrun routine, except this time altering it to fit the pace of the music. She was clearly focusing a lot more this time, since she had to fit a 'template', as it were, and make sure the music she produced wasn't off-rhythm. Her state of focus could be told from her even more narrowed eyes and the droplets of sweat forming on her forehead.

After nearly two minutes of the track, Quentin decided he'd up the ante unexpectedly and began scratching at the record, stretching out certain parts of the track for longer than usual to psyche her out. Due to her aforementioned focus, however, she was able to hold out for the strangely elongated segments of the track, her face contorted into a mixture of painful concentration and euphoria.

As the track reached its four-minute mark, it became clear to Quentin that she may have gotten a little too excited when he noticed a nearby wooden broom smoking. Phoebe's problems with pyrokinesis are extremely variable; it's not just anger or depression that can set them off, good things like excitement can also set them off. Of course, Quentin wasn't going to be the one to piss her off, so he simply watched and prepared himself for anything bad that might happen to his house.

Phoebe continued playing even after the track had finished at five minutes, speeding up quite a dramatic amount and allowing the drumrun to descend into a mess of strike-strings and 'bongs' seemingly inserted in at random, before finishing off a few isolated double-strikes for extra effect, at which point Phoebe threw her arms in the air, shouting "WHOOOOOOO!" with enthusiasm.

As Quentin had expected, that burst of excitement promptly caused the smoking wooden broom to burst into flames. Before he could applaud Phoebe's performance, he speedily grabbed a bucket next to the grimy sink and started filling it up with water. Phoebe, of course, didn't seem to care.

"Quentin, did you see that?! That was AWESOME! I am the greatest, I can't believe I thought I suck, why'd I do that?! Only an idiot would do that! Hah, and you thought you could psyche me out with your scratching, didntcha?!"

"Yeah, that was pretty damn awesome, but can we save the self-congratulations for after I prevent your sheer awesomeness from burning my house down?"

"Yeah, that's right! I'm so awesome, I burn people's houses to the ground with sheer awesomeness! Sheer awesomeness, bi-"

"Quentin, is your psycho girlfriend tryin' to set the house on fire again?!" said a different female voice from the doorway leading to the rest of the house. This voice belonged to a thirteen-year-old girl dressed in a black vest, torn baggy jeans, studded wristbands and, most strikingly, spiked-up bright pink hair.

Meanwhile, as Quentin finished filling up his bucket with water, sloshing around more than it should thanks to Quentin's uneasy grasp as he walked to the burning broom, turned to the girl and attempted to ward off her interference in their band practice.

"Imogen, for the umpteenth time, she is NOT my girlfriend!" Quentin confirmed, throwing the water over the fire, putting it out and revealing a blackened, smoking stick where the broom used to be. "...Or a psycho, for that matter!" he continued.

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, broski. Both of 'em."

"Ughhhhh..." Quentin groaned in annoyance.

"Actually, Dad wanted to show Phee somethin' 'bout that pamphlet Quentin gave 'im. Somethin' 'bout a camp for super secret psychic soldiers or some other shmuck bait?"

"What are you talking about, sis? That camp's heavy! Gnarly! Totally Munga!"

"Is 'at so? I heard there was this Coach Orleans guy..."

"Oleender."

"What?"

"The guy's name, it's Oleender! Morkeyoh Oleender! Get it right! That goes for you too, Phoebe!"

"Whatever!" The two girls responded simultaneously, not really giving many cares for how the man's name was pronounced. Imogen continued with her announcement.

"So yeah, this coach sounds like a nasty piece o' work. Nothin' I couldn't handle, o' course, me bein' badass and all, but you... not so much. You know, I read on the Internet that he tossed a buncha blind kids offa cliff once, 'cause they were late for his class."

"Hey, I can totally handle that guy! Are you comparing me to a blind kid now?"

"Yeah, o' course I am. I mean, if the quality of yer scratchin's any indication, you're as blind as a bat, and twice as ugly."

"What sense does that make? First of all, my scratching is the business! Secondly, how does the quality of my top-class DJ skills affect my appearance?"

"Well, the 'wikka-wikka-wikka' noise-makin' makes yer 'ands all red and callous, and don't get me started on 'ow yer terrible singin' contorts your face into a mess."

"Aaaaaggghhh..." Quentin groaned again, sliding his hands down his face, while Imogen cast a cheesy grin right at him, exposing the great big gap in her teeth in the process, for she knew she was annoying him. It's one of her favourite pastimes.

"Sis, _your_ face is a mess!" Quentin found himself retorting, for lack of a better retort.

"Quentin, that was just _bad._ That was so bad that I'm going to agree with her." Phoebe decided to broadcast.

"Phoebe, what the hell? You're supposed to defend me from my sister when you're not _being_ her for her when she's not around!"

"Now we can add 'makes no sense' to the list!" Imogen cut in, snappily.

"No, I do, but... when I said... I-I meant... gah, that's it, I give up! The girls win _again_!"

"Yeah, we won, Imo! High four!" Phoebe exclaimed at Imogen, raising her hand high in anticipation of a hand-smack. It was obvious that she was still drowning in euphoria from her performance.

"I'd love to, Phee, but _we_ didn't do anythin'. Also, I'd rather not get my 'and burnt like the last time."

"Sis, didn't you say Dad wanted to show Phoebe something to do with the camp?" Quentin said, trying to steer the conversation away from cheeky girls poking fun at him and more towards the original aim.

"I did? I mean, yeah, sure I did. He's in the kitchen, wantin' to show her somethin' on the laptop. Heh, I tell you one thing, I'm glad I ain't goin'."

"So am I, because if there's one thing that's worse than Phoebe, it's two Phoebes in the same place."

"Yeah, and if there's one thing worse than Quentin, it's Quentin wearing a stupid scarf! Oh wait, he's _always_ wearing a stupid scarf!" Phoebe retorted, always the one ending the banter between the two, eliciting laughter from Imogen.

"Haaah! You sure told 'im, Phee! Man, maybe I would consider goin' if only to listen to you two duke it out, but I sure as hell ain't puttin' up with any stupid Coaches... besides, y'all know I'm no psychic. I can barely lift a can o' cream soda with TK... nah, I'm meant for greater things..." she mused, walking over to the other side of the garage and picking up a grubby-looking black electric guitar, with a sticker reading 'Death Before Dishonor!' on it. "You might wanna cover your ears as you leave."

"Yeah... we'll do that. Well, I'll do that. Later, sis, and don't hurt your fingers on that guitar!"

"Pffff..." Imogen went as she started fingering the strings on the guitar. Quentin was clearly quite eager to separate Phoebe and Imogen, on account of the pair of them producing more good-natured ribbing than even Quentin could handle, gesturing silently for Phoebe to follow him out of the room. Since she was _still_ drowning in euphoria, she just went along with it, almost brainlessly, not really paying much attention to why Quentin was taking her out of the room.

The pair of them made their way through the halls of the house to the kitchen, which was somewhat less swanky than Phoebe's and not connected to the dining room, and was very contrasting. On one hand, it was very well-organised and tidy, even the assorted memos and drawings on the fridge were carefully arranged like a grid, with the father's ordered weekly schedule overlooking them all like a vigilant police officer.

On the other hand, it was also extremely colourful, mostly natural colours such as green, orange and pink, and there were a lot of swirly patterns on the dishes and flowery patterns on the wall-tiles, and plenty of dirty outlines of bare feet on the floor, and this was saying nothing of the fridge, with its drawings of flowers, peace signs and the 'Save the Pandas!' sticker right next to 'Support our Troops!'.

There were two people in the room. On the breakfast table next to the wall, there was a man, who looked sturdy, in spite of his subtle beer gut. He had a long face and receding red hair the same red as Quentin's, and was wearing a simple grey t-shirt and tracksuit trousers/pants, with fuzzy slippers designed to resemble the paws of a wolf. The man was sitting at a laptop, drinking coffee out of a 'Top Cop' mug.

On the other side of the room, there was a woman standing in front of a flowery ironing board, busy ironing a black police officer's shirt, while bobbing up and down and generally looking very bubbly. She was rather skinny and had a flat chest, a rounded head much like Quentin's, and red hair with a bushy side-ponytail. She was garbed in a bright green shirt and baggy brown trousers with more flowers on them, and was barefoot, no doubt the source of the dirty footprints. Closer inspection would reveal that she had earbuds in her... ears, which would explain the bobbing.

The man spoke up, never breaking eye contact with his computer screen. "Quentin... uh... Phoebe, was it? come and have a look at this..."

"Dad, how come you can never remember her name? I've told you, like, fifteen times this week." Quentin said off-handedly, walking over to his father with Phoebe.

"And how many times have I told you to allow for mistakes in one's memory?"

"Thirteen-million times?"

"Don't get too snarky, Quentin, it could spell your doom." he responded, half-jokingly. "Never mind, just look at this webpage here."

Quentin and Phoebe did as the man obliged, leaning in to get a closer look at the computer screen. They saw a rather blocky-looking webpage that resembled a blog, in sterile white-and-grey, with the words 'The Molosseum' in blood-red at the top. Underneath that was a picture of a middle-aged man with a long face, even longer than Quentin's father's, with a strange brown hairstyle that appeared to be a balding/mohawk hybrid and a chinstrap beard, with his eyes obscured by dark glasses.

"Who's that guy?" Phoebe and Quentin asked simultaneously, obviously quite eager to find out why exactly they had been dragged from their practice session.

"That guy's Dr. Milton Molossus. Says here he's a world-famous psychologist, an ex-Psychonaut and an outspoken advocate of... Brain Tumbler therapy, whatever that is. It doesn't sound that safe, but your mother seems to think he's the man to turn to for Phoebe's... problems."

"Quentin, I thought you agreed to not tell your family about my issues!" Phoebe blurted out.

"Oh, chillax, Phoebe, it's not like we're gonna blackmail you or anything! Besides, you knew they knew, didn't you? They've known since years ago. I mean, they kinda have to know. It's a pretty big deal if my best friend has an uncontrollable habit of setting things on fire, y'know?" Quentin found himself defending his decisions, even though it was quite obvious to all except Phoebe that he had done this multiple times, if the slightly bored tone in his voice was any indication.

Phoebe turned her attention to this new figure on the computer screen, with a somewhat disappointed expression on her face. "You think my parents haven't found out about this guy? We looked everywhere in the country to find people who could fix my issues. They said this guy was great, but he's always in some country half-way across the world or something."

"Well, what is this 'Brain Tumbler' stuff, anyway? Sounds kinda funky, if a little bogue." Quentin replied, and watched as Phoebe scratched her head in confusion and replied:

"What in the hell does 'bogue' mean?"

"We don't say 'hell' in this house, miss." Quentin's father cut in, again, half-jokingly.

Quentin answered once that was done with. "It means an unrealistic idea."

"Whatever, dude... anyway, my dad told me about those Brain Tumbler things once. Apparently they're like machines that let you enter your own mental world. Too bad we couldn't see this Molossus dude, 'cause if I could get in there, I'd kick my impulses' asses so hard they'd be tasting boot polish!" Phoebe replied.

"We don't say 'ass', either." Quentin's father cut in half-jokingly _again_, oblivious to the lady walking over from the ironing board, removing her earbuds and exposing the distinct sound of Disco music from them.

"Aww, don't be such a square, Kyle. All kids will swear a few times before they hit the big eighteen..." she said in a dreamy manner.

"Which is unfortunate..." Kyle responded with deadpan delivery.

"Ugh, why you gotta be such a smoky _in_ the house as well as out?"

"At least I don't do 'smoky' around the kids, Roxane."

"Ughh... and again with the joaning, man! I'm just tryin' to bring them out into the world as open-minded people of spirit..." Roxane went dreamily once again, and while they were busy bickering in the manner inherent of the Hedgemouse clan, Quentin and Phoebe were taking a closer look at screen on Kyle's laptop.

Phoebe whispered to Quentin "Dude, I swear your mom is way harder to understand than you, and that's saying something."

To which Quentin replied "What can I say? She's a retro lady."

Before Phoebe could follow that statement up with another cheeky comment, Quentin finished reading a section of Dr. Molossus' website and spoke up. "Killer! The guy is actually in town this month! So Imogen didn't drag us out here for nothing!"

"You're pulling my leg, Quentin, really?! I knew there was a way! I am so going to see this guy ASAP and kick my impulses' asses!" Phoebe exclaimed, once more with enthusiasm.

"I still think we should go to that camp, though. I mean, the mental world sounds like a real funkadelic place to be, but it just wouldn't be the same without-"

"Quentin, how many times do I have to tell you? I am a badass! If I want to destroy my impulses, I will! If I have to climb mountains of drums and swim across lakes of lava and do backflips over lasers in a checkered-floor hallway and drink coffee mixed with chicken soup that's been filtered through an old mattress before crushing a slinky with my knees while doing the okey-cokey, I will, because anything's gotta be better than spending a week in a camp with a guy who makes kids explode and chucks blind kids off of cliffs!"

"Geez, Phoebe, sometimes I wonder if you and Imogen aren't the same person, you're just as gullible. Besides, if you're such a badass, surely you can handle this dude. He doesn't even do that shtick, those are just people on the Internet raggin' him. I'm sure he's a nice guy."

"Quentin, _you_ can go to the camp if you like. Knock yourself out. Just don't blame me if you die at some point, no doubt getting strangled by your scarf after falling off a tree like the last time you tried climbing one."

"Yeah, well at least I actually _tried_ climbing it, little miss badass!"

"Urrrgh!" Phoebe now found herself grasping her head in frustration as Quentin cast a cheesy grin at her, just as his older sister did mere minutes before. "Quentin, you are such a tease!"

"I live in a family of teases, Phoebe. Just look at them..." he said, pointing to the still-bickering parents next to the kitchen sink. "It's hard not to know the art of the tease when you've been trained in it since day one."

"Well!" Phoebe regained her composure, placing her fists on her hips. "We'll see who's the real badass when I go in here..." she said, pointing to her head "...and _obliterate_ my impulses! Obliterate them good!"

"How much you wanna bet?"

"Ooooh... so that's how we're doing things now, is it? You wanna play dirty, do you? Fine. How's this... if I can kick my impulses' asses before the end of the week, you... have to name our band... 'The Firestarters'."

Quentin, once again, found himself sliding his hands down his face in irritation. "Awww, man, not _this_ nonsense again..."

"Yeah, _this_ nonsense again!"

"You accuse me of playing dirty, and then you pull the band-naming card on me?! Cheap-shot! Fine then, if you mess up, then we have to call it... 'The Levitators'. You knew this was coming, my bro."

Phoebe looked as if she was declaring war as she retaliated to Quentin's side of the bargain, perhaps taking the whole thing a bit too seriously. "That's it, dude, that's it! You are on! You and your 'Levitators' are going down in a trail of smoke!"

"Dream on, man. Your folks will never let you slide under Platypus' orders, anyway. Not in a bajillion years." Quentin retorted, an air of smug surrounding him.

"Guess we'll see about that, Disco Q."

The two vitriolic best friends may have sealed their deal, but the room was still deep in the sound of bickering from the two heads of clan Hedgemouse, which drew the attention of the children. They had started listening back in on Roxane's turn.

"...And 'cause of that, me an' my bros... all lost our buzz! All of it! There was no way we could complete that anti-whalin' petition 'cause we were all completely burned out! Meanwhile, you were at the station with your feet up, you didn't even get any jing for it! It's as if you set out that night to muck up my bro's plans with your attracti- oppressive methods!"

"Well then, I think that rests my case." Kyle responded to his wife, his own air of smugness surrounding him.

"What case? I thought I kicked it in back at the lab raid, remember? I swear, your voice got way more squeaky after that."

"My voice is not squeaky! It is _inconspicuous_."

Suddenly, however, all speaking and noise in the room was drowned out by the blasting sound of an electric guitar coming directly from the garage, sending subtle shockwaves through the house. The sudden interruption of the family's all-important bickering session prompted the parents to run out of the room, bound for the garage. Phoebe and Quentin stayed where they were, trying to deafen themselves by placing their fingers in their ears so as to avoid too much ear damage. Phoebe was forced to shout above the noise to heckle Quentin some more for the night.

"WE ARE GOIN' TO THAT DOCTOR'S PLACE TOMORROW! YOU'D BETTER BE THERE TO WATCH THE FIRESTARTERS RISE ONCE I'M DONE!"

"WHATEVER! YOU'LL NEVER GET 'EM TO TAKE YOU!"

"JUST YOU WAIT! NOW, IF YOU'LL EXCUSE ME, I GOTTA GO!"

As Phoebe began to quickly walk out the room, her ears still covered, Quentin responded once more. "SEE YOU ON THE FLIP SIDE, BURNIN' ITCHY!" Sadly, she had already left by the time he had uttered the final two words.

_'Awwww man... that woulda really riled her up...'_ he thought to himself.


End file.
